


Counting Down

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [9]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Chapter: Epilogue, End of the World, Gen, Might Become Shippy Later, Not DST Complaint, Species Extinction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2018-10-02 04:54:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: The Shadow realm is finite; it's death was long and drawn out.There's only one Chapter now, one world left, and only three to live it: a corrupted Queen, a suffering King, and the last, lonely Pawn.The end is nigh.





	1. An Epilogue Has Begun

Wilson was ready.

He stared at the machine, at the dulled metal and vibrating, frayed wires that rose it up, the key rigid and locked in beside it. The wooden piece of it, the foundation that carried the weight of metal and energy, creaked threateningly, looking so much older than usual. 

Actually, each piece looked older than usual. Worn, smoothed over on handles and levers, rusted in some parts, even broken in others; the whole work was starting to age.

A sign of something, perhaps, but Wilson was not going to wait and find out the end.

He's held each object hundreds upon thousands of times, placed them in different orders and ways millions of times, and has passed through each gate an infinite sum of times.

He's sat upon the Throne so many times that it was almost the only thing he could remember anymore.

And yet he's been freed from it each time.

Standing in the weak firelight, ignoring how hard his heart was pounding in his chest and how the night felt so, so heavy around him, Wilson glared at the metal head shaped object, it's grin worn over and dulled with age. It's red gaze was nonexistent now, the flickers it had last world all but gone out. The bird in his pocket squirmed weakly, then settled with a quiet chirp, bundled tightly with his other supplies.

A part of him hoped it'd survive a long time where he was going; it was going to be essential to his survival after this.

Sounds rose up behind him, the slow crawling of a music box echoing in the thick silence. Wilson knew that if he'd turn around, those sickly hands would be crawling up behind him, aiming to squash out his fire. He didn't move, waited for awhile and just listened to the hauntingly familiar music.

The shadows have been getting slower and slower lately. If he turned around, he'd see them slither through the dirty carpeting, dragging boney fingers through the fringes as if remembering something, barely even making an attempt on the blazing embers of light. The slow music started to fade, pull back, and Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, breathing in deeply.

They've stopped trying to take away the light for awhile now.

It didn't stop them from ripping the life out if him in total darkness, but the attempts were getting less and less frantic. In the higher reaches of the realm, the place above all this, the sun had become pale, sickly, so, so weak.

Wilson feared that, if he ended up back there, the celestial object would have guttered out, leaving the world slathering in this same thick darkness. That each world afterwards, passed through by these scattered gates, would be eternal night.

Not empty, but almost. Things failed under dying light, went extinct under pure darkness, and the populations were falling ever lower. It had taken time, precious time, gathering the eggs he had in his pockets. The bird had been a lucky find, a broken wing from some mysterious accident preventing it from escaping him.

The other creatures, the ones who had live births, were gone. Bones now, stripped by the weak buzzards and fewer and fewer spiders. Even the giants were long gone, bleached ribcages and strips of fur or feathers, the underground all but empty from the sudden influx of maddened cannibalism.

This last rotation had felt rather final, when Wilson let himself think about it. Something about the Throne, how it had clung to him even as the key was turned and even as he felt himself collapse into trembling arms and fade into dust, something from the desperation in the air and how the worlds breath had stuttered and wheezed in air until that point felt like…

…like a finale. Like the end, but not extravagant or great; just a whisper, a puff of lost air. 

Even They were falling asleep, the absence of shadowed creatures painfully obvious in this world. This darkness, this forever night, had always been the playing ground for shade abominations, but all that visited him now were the ragged hands, aged things that were more focused on objects in the light than their original targets.

Sometimes Wilson wondered on who it was that was out there, tired and alone, but then he'd remember all the deaths he's suffered at their hands and he'd dismiss the pity. If there was darkness, they'd be there; they were always around, so he should not spend valuable time thinking on their loneliness.

Said time felt like it was running out. The machine made a clunking noise, the whole of it shuddering fitfully, and Wilson took a few steps towards it, placed himself in front of its weakening structure. 

He knew what he was doing, but he didn't know if it'd work. If he failed down there, died in some way or another…

Wilson didn't want to think about it. Such things would drive him mad, and he knew such states well enough know to not want it anymore. That ignorance, that numbness; it had long ago lost it's shine when the anxiety picked up, when he found himself in places of pain and suffering, trying to die in horrendous ways just to feel alive again. Not even They could make it feel better, and They were of a higher level than a mortal such as himself; They had known infinite ways to cause such activity in a mortal brain, and yet it had been all lost on him. Their incompetence or his, he didn't know, and know he'd never know.

They had long since abandoned this place.

Another stuttered breath, rolling his shoulders and trying to stand tall. It was not weakness, admitting he was nervous, uneasy, /worried/; what would he find, beyond this gate? There had been no visits, no words of warning this time around for each passed world. There had been no signs of anything at all.

Would he find the regular, occupied Throne? Or an empty one? Or maybe even worse, nothing at all but dust and empty void? Nothing at all, perhaps…

An end to this hell, maybe, but…Wilson did not wish for death, not this idea of true death. Not yet.

He hadn't come to terms with the fate of the universe just yet. There had to be more time, more life left.

Oh God, he hoped the Throne was still there, that it was still sat upon. He didn't to be alone out here, in this wasted place full of death.

No matter his hate, his unhappiness, he'd rather be near to someone he wanted dead than no one at all.

…Please, let him still be there, suffering upon that chair of shadows and thorns.

The machine let out another creak, a hissing warning as part of it bent oddly. The fire burned low now, flickers of shadow and pale yellow light, and Wilson stared at the machines metal head one last time, at the aged metal, rusted and worn down, hairline fractures spreading over its face.

Now or never.

And Wilson passed through the gate as the world heaved and thus folded into a space of nothingness.

Quickly, tiredly, /she/ passed through the membranes of collapse, settled slowly into the familiar weight of the Thrones darkness, and then dozed, a dream state of the universes crumbling atrophy.


	2. Thwarted Checkmate

The world flooded over, shuddered fitfully and arched with color and sounds and everything as the gate used the last of its strength in a final toss. 

Slowly the darkness in his eyes faded, replaced by flickering flame, and Wilson sat up.

He was still here, still alive. Raising a hand to his head, blinking slowly and trying to orientate himself, Wilson looked up at the lone source of light above him. The stone pillar stood tall, solid, though even from here he could see the threading cracks cluttering its surface, how its flame sputtered erratically and how aged it seemed from the last time he had set eyes on it.

A low hum startled him, made him notice the metal rod set down next to him, and it vibrated weakly in an attempt to get his attention. Wilson picked it up, examined it for a moment, noted the denting and rusting and general rugged appearance of it, before pushing himself to a stand. His stomach twisted and he wavered for a moment before gaining his balance, ignoring the pains. The last thing he had risked sticking in his mouth had been spider flesh; the queen had been starving when he had found her, the remains of her children not enough to sustain her, and it had been a mercy on his part when he had decapitated her. 

He had better supplies in his pockets, stale but healthy, but he needed them as renewable resources. Starve for a short while, and then his labors will be rewarded; that was the plan anyway. Who knew if anything would grow down here, if anything would survive for long in total darkness?

…He was really hoping that what he had would work. He didn't want to dwell on it if it didn't.

Wilson looked around, turning in a circle slowly with the rod ringing quietly in his hand. It was odd that only one light was on; hadn't there always been two of them? He had no torches, no miner hats or lanterns; he couldn't bring such supplies with him with what he already had in his pockets.

Essentials, or at least what he could guess that would be essentials. Food sources, material sources he'd not find out here, renewable resources that he'd have double uses for; Wilson had spent long amounts of time thinking all of this over, trying to list what would work in the long run. 

He had been banking on the fact that the torches here would be still working.

Slowly, carefully, a death grip on the metal key, Wilson went over to the edge of the flames light and looked out into the darkness. After a moment, trying to figure out where the next set of pillars were, Wilson was almost blinded when two bright flames caught suddenly. Rubbing his eyes with one hand, not daring to step back incase the lights went out for good, Wilson started forward.

Here and there were pillars that did not flash on, broken in half or crumbled in smashed chunks or even looking as if they were sliced into neat pieces, but the partnered towers never failed, letting him walk constantly in the faded light. The layout was the same as ever, branching off into rooms with prebuilt machines and tools, packed chests and even food laid out in banquets as if in celebration.

Looking off in the direction of one such crossway, into the darkness that blanketed everything here, Wilson wondered for a moment if any of that was still there. Even if the damn food was always rotten and molded, even if everything was old and disused, it was a comfort to have them there sometimes.

But he wasn't going to waste time checking. Right now, after that fall from the above world, he had to check the end of this pathway. As slow as he was taking it, detours were not on his mind; the Throne was still ahead of him.

And even if this place still stood, crumbled as it was, it did not quiet his worry. Wilson knew the Throne, knew as much as it would let him remember every time he left it's grasp, and he knew this place would not exist at all without it, but still. He didn't fully understand the extent of what was happening, knew he didn't understand it, so Wilson could not be sure of the fate of the Throne, if it still stood, if it was still part of the realm.

The lack of eyes out in the darkness, of heavy otherworldly beings blinking slowly at him and following his every move, made him even more on edge. Such absence was unthinkable, and yet nothing watched him from out there, nothing that he had become so used to. 

He felt more alone than ever.

Sucking in a breath of air, of dust and cold darkness, Wilson continued, his footsteps echoing over marble stone. He tried not to think too far ahead, did not want to envision emptiness at the end of this path, did not want to think of the void and the nothing that could be ahead of him.

He was luckier than that, surely? Fate, or whatever controlled his life in one way or another, had to have something more than him starving to death here or giving in to madness and committing suicide in the black night that surrounded him.

That was all he could call up, all he could let himself ponder upon if it became apparent that he was the only one here. If he had been utterly and totally abandoned, a new level of hell where he'd only be looped back here every time he'd die, where it was eternal darkness and death.

Trembling hard, shoulders hunched in the sudden skittering of fear in his mind, rubbing his forehead for a moment and trying to clear his thoughts, Wilson stepped to the right to avoid the statue that rose up in the middle of the path. A glance up as he walked by, slowing his steps at the familiar figure and face, at the unfamiliar signs of wear and tear, of chipped visage and cracked stone, Wilson swallowed thickly and continued on the last stretch.

The silence was a terrible thing, a dreadful thickness that he's never felt here before. The lack of music, of that energetic tune that would sweep throughout the Throne room, was so very /wrong/. How many times has he made his way here, that obnoxious jingle blaring throughout this place as he got closer and closer to the end? How many times has he sat upon the Throne, trying and failing to cover his ears as it drilled into his head, the shadows thick on his arms and binding him still under its piercing notes and screams?

His footsteps were so loud, heavy echoes in this cavernous space, his heart thudding hard in his chest and gaze directed downwards. He did not want to find dust, did not want to find something even worse, and yet he had to know, had to look up and /see/ what was in the center of this world once the spotlights went on. Wilson hesitated, wavered in sudden unease and anxiety, his will pushing and pulling for only a moment before he took his next step forward.

Lights flared, opened up in an almost ring of guttering white flame, and the stone pillars rose up behind the Throne, toppled here and there, covered with bone white vines and dead plant matter. The Throne itself was unchanged, was big and twisted and heavy with corruption and darkness, and-

And the King was still there.

Wilson almost stumbled, the fear that he had been avoiding rising up and leveling thickly. The air in the room was stifled, dead and stagnant, and for a moment he just stared, ragged breaths from his own chest ringing in his ears and everything else silent around him.

Maxwell did not look well, looked like he had always looked upon the Throne; ragged, old, weak and useless. There was no change there, the strands of the Throne and how it clung to its King no different from every other time Wilson has been down here, there was no /change/ at all. Besides the fact that no greeting rang out, no well said speech or confusing mess of answering questions and thus creating more; nothing happened at all, and the King remained hunched over, face obscure and silent.

The rod key rang out quietly, not at all loud or alarming, yet Wilson jumped at the distraction, a nervous tick of his hands and how hard he tightened his grip around the metal rod, knuckles white and numb in the colder air. When he looked back up, the metal thrumming in his hands, Wilson found Maxwell staring right at him.

He looked so…tired, face and expression the same as always and yet so…still. So stiff, so hopeless, so /dead/ inside.

“You should not have come here, Higgsbury.”

Hearing someone again, such a jarring difference from his own voice or the silence of the wastelands above, set him back a moment, stuttered his own thoughts and focus.

And then Wilson straightened up, hand tight around the key, face pulled into a hard frown. The flicker of anger, agitation that puffed up in his chest was enough to break through his relief at seeing someone else here, enough to distract him from his previous thoughts of abandonment and fears of dark solitude.

“And why would you say that?”

Wilson stepped forward, wholeheartedly focused on his anger, at what was happening and how it was unexplainable, and how the last person in this world was literally the one he hated the most, how of course he was on the Throne, of course he knew what was happening, the omnipresence was his to use, /why did he not warn Wilson/-

“Where else would you expect me to go?! With what's happening out there, did you really think I'd stay put?!”

Maxwell sighed, his posture loosening up and leaning back into the Throne. The dark strands of it, thick spines and strings that leaked oily fluid constantly, were wrapped about his form, tighter and more crowded than normal, hands locking in his ragged clothing and tight against his skin. It was as if the Throne was clinging to him, holding the man in its embrace and locked tightly onto his physical form with everything it had.

As if the Throne wanted nothing more than to never let go.

“There is nothing for you here.”

“As if there ever was.”

Wilson snapped, his voice harsh in comparison to Maxwell's slow apathetic tone. He was more than angry, at his own predicament and the worlds, wanted nothing more than to know what was even going on, and the only way to know it all was to-

But he wasn't going to do that.

The metal buzzed in his hands, a dull ring escaping its bent speaker, and Wilson looked down at it in distaste. He always found its odd yet familiar shape to be so…degrading, in a sense. Rubbing salt in an old wound, and he still berated himself on his past actions, of his blindness and gullibility.

Not one person would have listened to a mystery man on a radio asking them to build an unknown machine, not one but him it seemed.

“…Will you be using that, then?”

Maxwell watched him, eyes lidded and body stiff, and Wilson glared back in response, shoulders trembling in both anger and some other emotion he could not identify nor cared to. The key made another mournful sound, echoed in the vastness of the Throne room.

“Of course not.”

More spite and venom than was necessary, perhaps, but of course Wilson would not grant such a quick death to the last person in the world besides himself. The way that Maxwell relaxed, face flickering for a moment that twisted into a harder emotion, the way he bowed his head and how the shadows seemed to throb around him, tighten their grasp and dig claws into his skin; it was enough.

“Then I have nothing more to say to you.”

That was a familiar part of the speech, something Wilson remembered from so long ago, before he had his questions answered by Them and then spun away into nothingness the instant he had been ousted from the Throne.

A silence stretched, the King still and quiet, unresponsive as Wilson grinded his teeth together and shook in agitation, mind twisting for plausible responses, snaps or snarks of any kind that could get the words flowing again, /to get this back to normal again/-

This forfeit, this sudden silence and cold shoulder treatment, this apathetic ignoring of his own problems and his own questions and own shock, of how the world was seemingly crumbing around them, was enough for Wilson to make a hasty decision.

Swinging away from the Throne and it's King, looking off into the darkness and dust, Wilson raised up the metal key and threw it with all of his might out into the inky haze. It moaned pitifully as it sailed out and away, the dull sound interrupted by banging and clattering, rocks and boulders and dead plant matter catching the infernal tool and making its decent harsh and rough as it tumbled into a nothingness that quickly consumed it.

Staring out after it, trembling and breathing heavily, the roil of emotion in his chest and the stress of the last few days bundled up in a cloud of smog over his head, Wilson had to close his eyes and rub his face frantically for a moment to gain control. He was hungry, he was exhausted, he was stressed out and could feel the tinges of hysteria slithering around in his head, and now that he's gotten to the end, he wasn't even going to get any answers, wasn't going to have anything fixed or have the world back into its normal order. All that was here was the Throne itself and some tired old man, a terrible person who was more focused on exchanging the Thrones seat and committing some sort of vague suicide than helping Wilson understand what was actually going on!

Admittedly Wilson had not breach the subject, had not actually start talking about such an important problem, but he had excuses! He had been out there, for days and weeks, had been avoiding death to get here while what, Maxwell sat on his arse and watched him rush about like a chicken without its head? Played chess with Them and ignored every warning sign?

Covering his eyes for a moment, the pressure of his palms uncomfortable and yet full of colors and static and darkness, Wilson slid down to the ground, legs crossing under him and back bent as he tried to calm himself. His breath wheezed loudly, wrong in the thick silence, and the things in his pockets shifted carefully before settling.

Wilson tried not to think about anything for a moment, dismissed his own fearful thoughts on the future, on the fading away and slow destruction around him, pushed away his worries and stress on what he had to start setting up, what he had to go out and plant and how he needed supplies and machines and all manner of things, how he needed to get everything ready so that he could sustain himself for an indefinite amount of time. He didn't want to think about the why of it, the reasoning of why he still wanted to stay, of why he didn't just hand himself over to the creature in the darkness. 

There was no reason at all, he was here because there was nowhere else to go, there was nothing left up there but death, continual, boring death, and even if he had went mad he'd still die, no more supplies left for fire or light and that thing in the night would choke the life out of him the instant he was awake, over and over and over again, and he couldn't let himself get to that point, /he couldn't do that/-!

Hissing in a breath, trying to stop himself from thinking these things, not wanting to guess at what would end up happening if he did die, not wanting to even breach the thoughts of this deep void of darkness and despair, Wilson curled up and held his head, fingers clawed in his hair.

He hadn't wanted this, any of this!

And yet it didn't matter what he wanted, didn't matter what was /supposed/ to happen or that it had always happened that way. This cycle was supposed to be continuous, was supposed to never break!

And here he was, having throne the key into the far reaches of absolute darkness and fearing that taking the Throne would destroy the only other player here!

Wilson could feel the drag of the last few days on him, the exhaustion that stuck to him, and for a second entertained the idea of resting, of /sleeping/ for once.

And then he dismissed that, swallowing thickly and struggling back up to a stand, wobbling there before he got his balance. A glance at Maxwell showed an unchanged scene, a darkened silhouette with closed eyes and clinging strands of shadow, and Wilson glared at him for a moment before turning away. His hands went to his pockets, to the bundles of seeds and eggs and the sleeping bird, and Wilson narrowed his eyes before setting off, back the way he had came, worn shoes echoing harshly on the stone and marble flooring covered with hairline fractures and deep cracks.

The faster he got this set up, the better he'd feel.


	3. Beginning of the End...?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Listen.
> 
> It's been more than a year, and I did have a lot planned for this, then. And, maybe, I still have those plans! Hell, maybe I still want to write for this idea!
> 
> Or. I might not. I literally have no clue.

_Footsteps echoed, clacking worn soles with marble, and then muffled by thick, dusty carpet, and he slowly, carefully became aware of the emergence of light._

_It always frightened him, no matter how many times he gets here. No light meant death, but here?_

_It was the opposite, ironically enough._

_Opening his eyes, only by the slightest, he didn't even raise his head as the pillars of stone lit up, flamed with bright, clear light, unnatural and artificial in all ways._

_Even now he still wondered how they worked, and why. But he hasn't been asking the right questions, and thus he never got the right answers._

_Shoes, legs entered his vision, visibly worn and dirtied and abused even, though he knew the man had composed himself before making his way down the path to him._

_He was doing a great job masking that limp, that was for sure._

_“A bit late this time, aren't you?”_

_His voice was dull, hoarse from disuse, swallowing thickly the dust and film of shadow in his mouth. The Throne underneath him was quiet, calm as ever, and it almost felt as if it was coddling him, in the way the shades curled about his wrists and ankles, roped around his chest and slithered a noose on his neck. If he let his mind wander and he didn't think all too hard about it, it almost felt comfortable, sitting here, cradled by shadow._

_He closed his eyes a moment, at the light, if strained, chuckle directed his way, and he could practically hear the smirk, the slightest baring of teeth into an almost grimace, the wheeze of tired lungs and injured body, even masked as it all was._

_Everything was a mask, here. They liked to whisper that to him, in the coddling darkness, soothing in some odd way._

_He won't be remembering any of this, he realized belatedly._

_“Sometimes you've got to stop and smell the roses, Higgsbury, don't you know that?”_

~~~

Wilson woke with a gasp, heart thundering in his chest as he scrambled up blindly, confused and dizzy and blurry eyed.

But there was no pitch darkness surrounding him.

The short man sat, panting, blinking his eyes to try and clear them of sleep and dreams, the light of a blackened, crumbling pillar blazing near to him, the only protection to the darkness about him. Out there, and not even pale white eyes met his; it was all empty, abandoned.

It was almost disheartening, that They've even deserted him.

If he closed his eyes, concentrated, even the lack of thin music would unsettle him. The empty void it left was a surprising one.

Something shifted next to him, sending a shot of adrenaline through his system and almost making him scramble back automatically, but he quickly quelled his own fear response, deep breathes as he glanced at the thrown together trap at his side.

There was grass growing, out here, but it was brittle and old and dull, thus his attempt at a trap came out rather lackluster. It at least got the job done, which he was thankful for.

While such a thing normally couldn't hold a bird, it could, in fact, hold an injured, flightless one. That being said, the trap shivered, jumped, before settling back down, and Wilson's face fell.

He really needed to construct something better for it. Being down here meant he needed it to survive as long as possible.

He carefully untensed himself, taking deep breaths and trying to keep a calm mind as his body groaned and ached from ovexhertain. Stretching his arms, wincing at the pops and soreness of his limbs, Wilson grit his jaw and internally grumbled at his lack of foresight.

Perhaps he should have at least thrown together a straw roll, to help. He hasn't slept on anything but the cold hard ground for quite awhile.

Sleeping, in fact, seemed to have been a waste of time.

Wilson knew that wasn't true, but with his body screaming at him and the ugly pit in his stomach, it sure felt like it was.

He had at least been cognitive enough to have placed those nests down before passing out. It would be a terrible thing, to have gotten this far only to have eggs burst open in his pockets and rapidly growing spiders eating him alive.

Not being in the most right of minds at the time made him worry on if he had placed them in a good, safe place. Those spiders wont last long if he had made a mistake, and he couldn't afford to waste them.

Carefully pulling himself up, stuttering on his next breath as a wave of lightheadedness hit him, Wilson slowly was able to get himself to his feet.

Or, foot. His left leg was acting up, and he experimentally shifted some weight on it only to have a needle of hot pain shoot up his spine, hissing as he quickly adjusted himself.

That run in with that treeguard was finally hitting him, almost literally in fact. Rotting it may have been, but it still had slapped him into the remains of crumbling petrified trees, still had enough strength to almost end his run there.

The only reason he was still alive was because his limp had been faster than its stumbling, tripping shamble.

Sheer willpower and adrenaline, fear, had been all he had been running on, and now he felt emptier and more exhausted than he's ever felt.

And that was saying something, truly.

Taking another deep, calming breath, or at least trying to, with that wave of anxiety and fear just waiting below the surface like a bubble about to pop, Wilson screwed up his face and curled his hands into fists. Sleeping, now, had been an ill thought out plan. He had originally intended to get everything done beforehand, then let himself rest, but his body had a different idea and now it has skewered his plans.

But not too badly, at least. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, wavering on one foot as he kept most of his weight off the other, noting the seeds and cones he had stuffed in them.

Besides the bird and spider eggs, he didn't have much else besides these hastily scavenged pods, and he took one of the birchnut seeds out to examine.

Yellowed, and certainly staling, but he could still plant it. And it might still grow, even without a source of sunlight or water.

And in the dry, ashy earth that made up this place, looking to the packed ground and its thin layer of dust.

After a moment, turning the seed pod in his over, Wilson sighed heavily, swaying as the aches and pains in his body acted up.

This was hopeless, and he knew it. Hell, even Maxwell knew it, and here Wilson had left him to the darkness of the Throne, not daring to approach just to get bitter and angry and frustrated. The man had nothing more to say to him, yet that was all he wanted now.

He's been wandering the crumbling ruins of reality and yet the last person left had no words for him, no explanation. 

Not even an apology even!

His hand tightening on the birchnut seed, Wilson steeled himself, empty stomach twisting with hunger along with a froth of spite.

Fine then! He'd show him, he'll figure this out on his own, he'll survive!

It was practically the one thing he was good at anyway. Even the end of what seemed to be everything wouldn't stop him.

With that Wilson shoved the seed back into his pocket, then carefully adjusted his weight to lean down and scoop up the trap, nabbing the startled bird before it could even think of hopping away. The red creature chirped, quiet and hoarse as he held it with one hand, stuffing the trap under his arm as he glanced around, looking for something.

The alchemy machine, along with its smaller counterpart and the silent, broken down manipulator, was in the same place as he had first seen it, and he knew there were chests elsewhere, stuffed chaotically with random bits and pieces, resources he knew he'd want.

Taking the wilted looking bird over to the looming machine, looking over its worn, dulled surface and nodding in satisfaction at its undamaged appearance, Wilson took a deep, steadying breath.

Whether or not any of this would work, whether or not it was a huge waste of time, just to set back death a few more minutes, a few more days, it didn't matter.

Or, it did, but he couldn't let himself think about it like that. There were more important, pressing matters to attend to, and he needed to focus.

Trees to plant, a bird to rehome, his injuries to patch up, tools and structures to build. He had things to do.

And Wilson would do them, no matter what was to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more thing. That last comment on the previous chapter...
> 
> Thank you. This is so short, and I'm sorry, but I hadn't actually thought I'd end up writing more. And your words gave me back a bit of my muse for this. So really, a big thank you for that.


End file.
